


The Great Magic Sex Mushroom Fiasco

by Magnolia822



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Felching, Food, H/D Food Fair 2018, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hung Harry Potter, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Mushrooms, Oral Sex, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Post-Hogwarts, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Something Made Them Do It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-07-07 14:18:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15909972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: Lost in the Siberian wilderness without food, Aurors Potter and Malfoy are forced to improvise, with unexpected consequences . . .





	The Great Magic Sex Mushroom Fiasco

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[32](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1E_uQJlIb5C6nLnMg8VrUUnrKtyx16is1FLbyvoxLEik/edit).
> 
> J.K. Rowling owns all the characters; I'm just playing in her sandbox. No offence is intended, especially not to any mycologists who might be reading this. 
> 
> Thanks to S for the beta and O for the Britpick on such short notice. Also, thanks mods for keeping everything so organized and being so understanding with extensions.

“It didn’t work.” 

“Yes, I can see that, Potter, thank you very much for the astute observation.” 

“Why didn’t it work?” Potter turned the chipped green teacup around and around, squinting at it like a speccy git. Behind him, a curtain of pine trees stretched for hundreds of miles, a limitless, gradually darkening expanse. 

Draco huffed, trying not to think too hard about the night ahead that held none of the comforts he longed for after the day they’d had: no bed, no hot tea, and no food. He ignored his rumbling stomach. “How am I supposed to know? You were the one in charge of ordering the Portkey. Why on earth I did I ever let you fill out the forms?” He snatched the cup out of Potter’s hands and turned it around one more time for good measure. Nothing. “You did use requisite form PEE-7652, didn’t you?” 

Potter stepped closer, sniggering, and his sweaty masculine scent filled Draco’s nostrils. “Yes, of course, I used the Prisoner Expedited Extraction Portkey order. The PEE form.” 

“There are several PEE forms, you utter child.” 

“Is that the best you’ve got, Malfoy?” Potter smirked, raising an eyebrow. 

“I have better things to do than think up creative insults to amuse you, Potter.” Draco thrust the useless cup back at him, letting it go like a scalding potato as Potter’s hand brushed his own. He was far too conscious of every time they touched for his liking. He couldn’t help being extra-prickly in response. “We are stuck in the middle of Siberia with an unconscious Death Eater and a malfunctioning Portkey.” 

Potter shifted from one foot to the other, regarding the snoring, gaunt man bundled at their feet, hands bound behind him with a shimmering Incarcerous. The last holdout from a camp of Death Eaters, he had evaded capture during a raid the previous month. 

Draco closed his eyes. When he had agreed to take this clean-up assignment with Potter, he had known the risks: use of common modes of magical travel, including Apparition and flying, was not allowed for non-citizens, even if they were Aurors. A stipulation in the ban allowed for Portkey travel, which was strictly regulated by the Russians. The rules were in place to allow the government near total control of the movement of Wizarding visitors; it also had the unintended effect of making the Russian forests attractive hideouts for criminals, who could easily move camp to keep the authorities on the hunt. It had taken almost seven years to capture ten individuals who had been on the Ministry’s Most Wanted list after the war.

As though aware of Draco’s train of thought, the man on the forest floor groaned and tried to stir, but Potter hit him with another wandless spell to keep him quiet. Draco tried not to be impressed, but it wasn’t his fault if he was, just a bit. The last few years had been very kind to Potter. Now twenty-five, he had lost the half-starved look of his youth and grown into a solid, stocky man of considerable magical powers. Of course Draco would never admit it out loud, but Potter was really quite a capable Auror as well. Not an hour before, he had taken down Walden Macnair as though he were a squib rather than a hardened follower of Voldemort. 

Potter was frowning. “I can’t understand it. I had Hermione double check the damn form. I swear, Malfoy, I don’t know how this happened.” 

There was something in the tone of his voice that made Draco’s chest twinge. “There is another possibility.” 

“Oh?” Potter must have seen the look on Draco’s face. “ _Oh._ You think the Russians?” 

“Might have deactivated the Portkey without alerting the Ministry, yes.” 

“You think they want him?” Potter toed Macnair with his dragonhide boot. 

Draco shivered. The chill of the evening air was already starting to seep into his bones, but there was another reason for the sudden coldness around his heart. “Maybe. Or maybe they want us.” _You,_ he didn’t say. He didn’t need to say it. Potter seemed to catch the implication quickly, and he gave Draco a grim nod. It wasn’t unheard of for foreign governments to use Aurors as bargaining chips, framing them for unlawful use of magic. Harry Potter would be a particularly coveted prize. 

It seemed to spur Potter to action. “Well, whatever happened, we can’t stay out here exposed like this all night. We need to make camp. How are your protective enchantments?”

“Decent,” said Draco, taking his wand from his holster. If the Russians did want them, they would have to find them first.

Luckily, they had come equipped with an emergency standard-issue tent and a moderate supply of water. Potter sent his Patronus, an impressive silver stag that wheeled up on its hind legs before disappearing into the forest. In an hour, maybe two, their colleagues would be alerted. Once the Ministry got word of their predicament, they would begin the process of getting another international Portkey authorization for a rescue party, which could take Merlin knew how long, especially if the Russians were being deliberately obtuse.

That also meant they would have to closely consider when and how to spell rescue flares. 

They worked quickly as a team: Potter secured the prisoner and Draco arranged the sleeping quarters, which were a bit too close for comfort. Auror tents were not lavish affairs; they were practical and designed to blend into the surroundings. He and Potter wouldn’t have much privacy at all on their modest pallets, especially since part of the tent was spelled to house the prisoner in a separate containment area. 

Aside from a mess kit and essential toiletries, that was it, all they had until the Ministry figured out what in Salazar’s name had gone wrong. 

It put Draco in a nasty mood, and so once he and Potter had finished with the Protego charms, he stomped back into the tent, casting a disgusted glance at Macnair, who even in Stasis would have to be fed and given water if he were to survive to face his trial. 

The thought of food made Draco’s stomach grumble again. Potter, coming up behind him, must have heard it; they were standing close together in the close quarters, and Draco could even feel the warmth emanating from Potter’s chest. 

“I could go hunting to get us something to eat. A squirrel, or a deer, maybe.” 

“A squirrel? Are you serious?” Draco’s stomach churned. 

“Oh, I forgot. You’re a vegetarian now, aren’t you?” 

Draco sniffed. Charity Burbage’s untimely demise on his dining room table had been enough to put him off meat for the rest of his life; now the closest he got was the occasional fish, but only when his mother insisted he was becoming anemic. _“It won’t do for your constitution to become frail, Draco,” she chided. “Not if you want to produce a healthy heir.”_ No matter he’d told her a hundred times he was gay and not likely to produce much of anything unless his prospective partner was willing to consider a gender-change spell for the duration of nine months. He liked his bits where they were, thank you very much.

Outside, it had begun to rain, and the drops pattered on the top of the tent, making the atmosphere inside almost cosy. Potter was looking at him with a curious expression on his face, waiting for him to answer. Draco’s stomach complained again. They hadn’t eaten since lunch that afternoon, and even that had been a pitiful affair of stale bread and a sweet Muggle—American, no less—concoction Potter called “PBJ.” They only had a few slices left. Something fresh would be a welcome change. 

“It’s raining,” said Draco, rather obviously. He shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Potter’s presence filled the space, and he was so close. With night falling, it was impossible to ignore the fact they were alone, save for Macnair. All of the unhelpful, sordid fantasies about Potter that Draco usually was able to repress were precariously close to bubbling through to consciousness.

Potter smiled. “You’re hungry. I’ll get us something. Just sit tight.” 

“We shouldn’t split up. It’s too dangerous.” 

“Oh, you worry too much. I won’t go far.” 

Before Draco could object again, Potter was holstering his wand and disappearing out into the dusk, his feet crunching on the leafy ground as he strode away to perform his latest bout of heroics. Left to himself, Draco lay down on his pallet, stared at the grey ceiling, and watched the rivulets of rain trickle down the outside of the fabric. 

Why, after all these years, did his schoolboy crush on Potter persist? It was madness. He was certain Potter was heterosexual, for one thing. Since he had broken up with the youngest Weasley, _The Daily Prophet_ front page often featured Potter out with his witch of the week. Draco always read those columns, drawn to them in spite of the way they made his stomach clench with jealousy and a tinge of rage. The witches weren’t even that pretty. They were average-looking, for the most part. Draco knew he was being petty, but he couldn’t help thinking Potter could do so much better.

 _Better like you?_ That was the other thing. Even if Potter did harbour a secret desire to shag men, Draco would certainly be on the bottom of his list. No pun intended. 

No, it was best to put these childish fantasies away, lock them up and never allow himself the luxury of even imagining what it would be like to run his hands through that wild black hair, feel those warm, soft lips on his throat. It was better to keep Potter at a distance, even when his helpfulness and good nature threatened to break through those carefully-constructed barriers. Sometimes, on days like today, he almost seemed to want to be Draco’s friend.

The rain beat on, steadily, and Draco must have dozed. He woke in a panic some time later, heart beating in his throat as the nightmare he’d been having dissipated and then was gone before he could name it. He grabbed for his wand to cast a _lumos_ and noticed there were quiet sounds coming from the other side of the tent. Potter was back, and he was cooking something over a small conjured flame. It smelled delicious. It was so mouth-watering, in fact, Draco found himself salivating as he rose and moved to sit near Potter, whose face was illuminated, his glasses reflecting the light of the flames.

“I found these,” Potter said, gesturing to a small pile of mushrooms at his right, which looked like they’d been removed from the bark of a tree. Draco recognized them instantly as chicken of the woods. More of them were chopped and cooking on the Auror-regulation pan along with some herbs and what seemed to be wild rice. 

“Where on earth?” Draco said, gesturing helplessly.

“Oh, the rice? I had a packet in my satchel, along with a bit of butter. The mushrooms and herbs I found. Sound good to you?” 

“It smells wonderful,” Draco admitted. “How did you know they weren’t poisonous?” 

Potter rolled his eyes. “I’m not a complete idiot. They’re chicken of the woods. I tested them with all of the right spells just to be sure, and I’ve already tasted one, too. I’m not dead yet.” 

“Yet being the operative word.” 

Potter’s shrugged, his mouth drawing into a self-satisfied smirk as he poked and prodded the items in the pan. It wouldn’t do for Potter to be an industrious, accomplished cook on top of everything else. In spite of himself, Draco leaned over to inhale more of the intoxicating scent.

“It’ll be done in a minute,” said Potter. “Why don’t you get us some plates?”

Draco spelled their mess kits over and procured the two eating dishes—he hesitated to call them plates—giving one to Potter, who spooned some of the food onto one and handed it back. By now, Draco was starving.

They tucked in with gusto. The mushrooms were delicious and perfectly cooked; though they needed salt, they almost melted on Draco’s tongue. The rice was tender, and the earthy spice of the herbs made the flavour of the dish more complex. Each bite was better than the last. It was hard to believe the quality given their circumstances. Indeed, the food was so distracting that Draco almost forgot he was seated next to Potter on his pallet until he’d finished and was swiping his thumb against the tin to capture the last of the juices. 

“Mmm,” he said, lips smacking. His stomach was full and warm, and he suddenly felt very, very tired. Something like concern niggled at the back of his mind, but he was too exhausted to exert mental energy. Plus, he didn’t feel anything like pain: on the contrary, he felt a diffuse sensation of pleasure spreading from his stomach to his fingertips. 

“Mmm,” Potter echoed. Draco turned, and Potter looked at him. Potter’s eyes had a glassy, sleepy look, and he seemed to be staring at Draco’s lips. 

The warmth in Draco’s stomach seemed to grow, fanning out over his limbs, which were getting increasingly heavy. He had to lie down. He did, not caring if it was on Potter’s bed, and then Potter was there lying next to him, a warm presence pressing against his back.

“Oh, shite,” said Potter, whispering into Draco’s hair. It was the last thing Draco heard before blackness took him.

***

Draco was burning up. He tossed from side to side, his eyes fluttering open with a moan. It was dark, and for a minute he wasn’t sure where he was or who was with him, and then he remembered.

They were lost in a Siberian forest. Potter was in bed with him, and Potter was . . . sleep wanking. The movement was unmistakable even in Draco’s hazy state, given the narrowness of the cot and the way Potter’s arm jostled against him in a slow, steady rhythm. 

The air around them smelled of sex and . . . mushrooms. Chicken of the woods was an innocuous fungus, but it’s twin the Maidenhead, while still edible, had strange effects Draco had only read about until now. Worse, it had been prepared with herbs . . . what kind of herbs? Wild rosemary had been a predominant flavor, yet there had been something else. At the best of times, Draco prided himself on his encyclopedic knowledge of European plants and plant-lore. How could he have been so foolish, questioning Potter about the origin of the mushrooms but not the herbs? Could it have been Rhodiola? Draco had been so hungry, so intoxicated by the scent and the prospect of eating he hadn’t asked, and of course Potter would never have known what combining the two might have meant, especially under a full moon. Damn and blast, Draco thought, but he was too turned on to muster the proper indignation, especially as Potter shifted and groaned in his sleep, his movements becoming more frantic. 

Draco’s entire lower body was tingling with arousal. His erection, hot as an iron, was straining against his trousers, and his arse felt strange—empty, wanting, and almost . . . wet. Unable to stop himself, he slipped his hand down and felt his hole, which had gone loose and pliant. He slid a finger easily inside and moaned, suddenly desperate to be filled. At the contact, his cock leaked and pulsed out a stream of precome, making him even more sticky and warm. 

“Gods,” he whispered. Potter mumbled something incomprehensible. 

Draco turned his head, and Potter’s eyes were open, staring at him hotly. “What the fuck is happening?” Potter asked.

“The mushrooms. Was there Rhodiola in the herbs you gathered?” 

“Yes,” Potter said, though it came out as more of a grunt. “I thought it was supposed to be good for you.” 

“It’s an ancient preparation,” Draco managed, still fingering his hole. He squirmed to get deeper, adding a second even as Potter watched him. “Used for couples on their wedding night to increase fertility and . . . well, Potter. . . help with bonding.” 

“Bonding?” Potter’s voice sounded husky in spite of his alarm.

“I’m afraid so. Normally, couples would be fed the mixture during the wedding night dinner and then bundled off together until the effects wore off. It’s only temporary.”

“How long?” 

“I have no idea. At least a few hours, if not more.” Draco shivered as he worked at his hole, wanting more than fingers. Every time he pushed inside, his hand brushed against Potter’s thigh. There was no hiding what he was doing from Potter, and no way to stop himself now that he’d started. His face flamed from heat rather than embarrassment. One of the side-effects of the mushrooms, he presumed, was a decided lowering of inhibitions. He would live to regret this day, but none of that seemed to matter, not when Potter groaned, a long, ragged sound that went straight to Draco’s prick. 

Now that Draco had adjusted to the darkness, he could see that Potter had pushed his trousers and pants down over his hips. His cock was barely visible in his grip, but Draco could smell the arousal coming off of Potter in waves, almost like he was an animal in heat. Which he was, in some respects.

The hand Potter wasn’t using to wank himself drifted over to settle on Draco’s hip, rubbing there with intent. “How do we stop it?” He nuzzled closer, his lips ghosting over the shell of Draco’s ear.

“We don’t. It has to run its course.” Draco pushed back, a shiver running through him as Potter nipped his lobe. Potter’s lips were teasing and demanding all at the same time as he moved to mouth at Draco’s neck.

“But you’re a bloke. I’m a bloke. If it’s for married people, why would it have worked on us?” Potter didn’t sound like he was complaining, much.

“In case you’re one of the few who missed it, Potter, men can marry other men. I’m a man who likes men. And you are a man who likes—”

“Both.” Potter whispered the word in Draco’s ear. “I like both. I’ve never . . . you’re the only one who knows that.” 

Somehow, during this exchange, they had moved so Potter was almost on top of Draco, Potter’s hands now firmly planted on either side of Draco’s head. Draco was trapped awkwardly, fingertips still grazing his swollen entrance. With reluctance, he wrenched his hand away and wrapped his arms around Potter’s back to pull him closer, shifting so their bodies aligned. The press of Potter’s hard--and rather large--prick against his own made him shudder. He couldn’t quite bring himself to believe this was really happening. It seemed more like a feverish dream than reality. 

It’s just the mushrooms, just an enchantment, his conscience whispered. Potter didn’t really want him. Draco knew that just as he knew he should pull away, stop this before they did something they’d regret, but he was too selfish at heart. He knew he would go wherever Potter led, even if it damned them both. 

“So what do we do?” Potter asked, his eyes latched on Draco’s lips. Draco whimpered as Potter began to rut, his bare prick sliding over Draco’s clothed one. 

“That’s a start,” Draco grunted. “Clothes. Off.” Before he knew what was happening, he and Potter were both naked, their clothes banished Merlin knew where. Potter and his bloody wandless magic. “You better not have lost my trousers.” 

“How can you possibly care about trousers at a time like this? I feel . . . Godrick, I feel like I’m going to die if I don’t get inside you. Can I?” As he spoke, Potter was pressing kisses to Draco’s face and neck, still avoiding his mouth. “I’ll just put the tip in, if you’ll let me. Please, Draco. Please.” 

Draco didn’t need to be asked twice. His arse throbbed, empty and wanting to be filled in a way that was almost painful. They both needed to take the edge off before they could hope to make any further decisions; as it was, they would be in extreme danger if anyone unsavory broke through their wards, not to mention what they would do if Macnair woke up.

“Yes, Potter—Fuck.” Draco had barely uttered his acquiescence when Potter was between his thighs, holding his legs open. He felt the blunt, wide tip of Potter’s prick start to press inside and almost cried out with pleasure. It went in easily despite its size. White hot sparks travelled up and down his body as Potter pushed on, unrelenting, until he was seated in the sticky, clenching heat of Draco’s arse. 

“You feel amazing.” Potter swiveled his hips and Draco could only gasp, his arse flexing around the intrusion. Bottoming had never felt like this before—this pure, unadulterated pleasure with no sign of pain, no struggle, no need for lubricant. He pulled his thighs back and offered himself up to Potter, thrilling when the cock inside him slid even deeper. “Damn, that’s good. Malfoy, you hot fucker. I’m going to fill you up.” 

“Well, do it then.” 

Potter nearly snarled as he snapped back his hips, then drilled Draco down into the uncomfortable mattress, pinning him there on every stroke. He used his whole body to fuck, grasping Draco’s arse as he plunged inside again and again, muttering dirty words and promises. This was no gentle coupling. This was a frenzy, a chaos of clutching limbs and biting mouths. Draco’s own prick was swollen and leaking against his belly; it wouldn’t take more than a light breeze for him to come. He wanted Potter to get there first, though. His stamina was impressive for someone driven out of his mind with lust. 

As soon as Draco had the thought, Potter shouted and went deep, staying there as his prick pulsed and pulsed. Draco imagined he could feel the hot liquid shooting inside him, leaving him messy and used . . . Potter’s come. Potter had come in him, and he was still moving, thrusting though the slick until Draco spiralled into his own orgasm, clenching down like a vise on Potter’s cock. For several long moments, they lay entangled until Potter started to soften and slipped out. 

Potter flopped to the side gracelessly, his breath gradually evening out. Draco groped around for his wand, found it half-hidden under one of the flat, uncomfortable pillows, and cast a quick cleaning spell, taking care to focus it on his skin. For some strange reason, he didn’t want to clear away any traces of Potter. Neither of them spoke. Tentatively, Draco allowed his right arm to drape over Potter’s bare torso. They had just fucked, after all. It wasn’t any more intimate than that. Potter didn’t seem to mind. Draco’s fingers itched to trace patterns over Potter’s skin, feel the coarse chest hair and the soft dip of his belly, but he restrained himself, not wanting to ruin the moment. 

The heat in Draco’s groin was still there; a banked fire, it smoldered, but it wouldn’t take much to ignite it again. He wondered how Potter felt about the whole bizarre situation: whether he was already having regrets or if he, like Draco, was already considering what they might do for the next round. 

“Where did you go, after the war?” Potter asked. The question caught Draco off-guard; he had never spoken to Potter—or anyone else, really—about that year. Thinking about it now, he didn’t know why. Maybe he had liked the air of mystery it gave him upon his return to Wizarding Britain. “You were different, when you came back,” Potter continued. “Less . . . of an arrogant arse. It made it harder to hate you.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Potter, if you want my opinion, your pillow talk could use a bit of work. Now I understand the revolving door in your dating life. No witch of good sense would shag you twice if that’s the way you dole out compliments.” 

Potter snorted, but he curled into Draco, propping his head up on his arm as he adjusted his position. It was still dark in the tent, and Draco wondered how long they’d have until the sun rose. Perhaps an hour, maybe two. 

“I didn’t mean to offend you. You know you were an arse when we were kids.” 

“Yes, well, I suppose it takes one to know one, as they say.” 

“As Muggles say.” Potter seemed perplexed, but his voice was fond. “I notice you didn’t answer my question.” 

In spite of himself, Draco found himself leaning into Potter’s touch. His cock was already at half-mast again, and as he shifted his thigh he felt the unmistakable press of Potter’s burgeoning erection. The thought of another go brought a new flood of desire through Draco and he could barely remember why he’d been so coy about his past in the first place.

“I lived with Muggles. In a Muggle neighborhood, in Wales. If you must know.” 

It was hard to see Potter’s expression, but Draco couldn’t tell if the sharp exhale of breath was the result of surprise or Draco’s touch. 

“What in the world did you do in Wales?” 

“I worked at a bookshop in Cardiff. Pansy’s sister married a Muggle, didn’t you know? It was his shop. I lived in a flat and learned how to ride one of those bicycle thingies too. Brooms are far superior, of course, but I can see their usefulness. Quaint, in a way. Bumpy, but quaint.” 

Potter let out a quiet groan as Draco’s hand replaced his thigh, gripping his now-rigid shaft and pumping once, twice, so slowly it was sure to drive him out of his mind. 

“I can’t believe it. You sound just like Arthur Weasley.” 

Draco’s prick was stiff and leaking again, and his arse was wet and aching in that peculiar way. “Please don’t bring any Weasleys into bed with us.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of sharing you with anyone.” Potter’s voice was soft and thready. He gripped Draco’s cock and started the same slow stroking. “Merlin, I haven’t been hard again so quickly since I was a teenager.” 

“I suppose that’s the point of the fecundity enchantment.” 

“Mmm,” muttered Potter. His mouth was on Draco’s throat again, then at his ear, nipping as he went. “And are you fertile, Malfoy? If I come in you again, will I put a baby up there, too?” 

Potter certainly had a dirty mind, but Draco didn’t have it in him to complain, not when the thought of it made him so hot. “Let’s try it and see,” he said. 

“Roll over.” Potter nearly growled. “I want to take you from behind this time.” 

The need that had only moments before been manageable became urgent. Draco rolled over and immediately felt Harry on top of him sliding his naked body into place. His prick poked between Draco’s cheeks, the tip rubbing against his bollocks and then up again to slot against his hole. But instead of plunging inside, like Draco expected, this time Potter moved his hips in teasing circles. He seemed to be enjoying the way Draco pushed back every time his cock was in the right position, the way Draco moved against him to encourage his entrance. 

“So eager for me.” 

“Yes, yes. You’re a sex god. Get on with it.” 

“Impatient, Malfoy?” Draco could hear the smirk in Potter’s voice. “Ask nicely, and maybe I’ll oblige.” 

“Potter, if you don’t fuck me soon, I’ll find someone else who will.” 

“Like Macnair?” 

“Don’t even joke about that.” Draco shuddered. Even if the spell holding Macnair wore off early, he would only see the four blank walls of his containment chamber, and he would only hear the raving thoughts in his own mind thanks to Draco’s trusty Muffliato. “Just . . . come on.” 

Potter’s big cock was sliding now between Draco’s cheeks, back and forth through the sweat and slick. His chest was pressed firmly against Draco’s back, and Draco couldn’t describe the feeling as anything else but being owned. In that moment, he was Potter’s so utterly, so completely, it was almost frightening. Someone could have uttered the killing curse and he’d probably die happy. His rational brain knew the situation was extremely dangerous, but it was easy to ignore rationality when being mounted by Potter. 

“You’re so sexy, Malfoy,” Potter said, breathless. “I’m going to fuck you now.” 

This time, Potter was serious. The head of his prick pushed inside and then to the hilt, eliciting a gasp from Draco, who wriggled to ensure Potter was as deep as he could be. For some moments, they remained still, feeling the intensity of the connection. Draco could feel Potter’s heart pounding against him, Potter’s prick filling him so completely he never wanted to be without it. 

Then, Potter started to move, and Draco lost all coherent thought. Potter’s hips snapped back and forth, his cock plunging again and again into Draco’s slick depths. Draco was already wet from Potter’s previous orgasm, wet from the ridiculous mushrooms and herbs. His prick pressed against the mattress with each thrust. He would have reached down to touch himself, but he knew coming again, easily, would not be an issue. His orgasm seemed tied somehow to Potter’s, and it wouldn’t be long for either of them. 

Like their first coupling, this one was anything but gentle. Potter seemed to be a man possessed, rutting at Draco’s arse like he would die if he didn’t. Draco wondered absently about his fertility comment, and for a moment he truly wished he could conceive and carry Potter’s child. He arched back, presenting himself as Potter slid inside perfectly, like he belonged there.  
Potter came moments later, letting out a low grunt as though surprised. Draco could feel the warmth seeping from him, hear the slick sounds that usually embarrassed him but now only pushed him closer to the edge. He reached down to grab his prick, and with a few strokes he was coming over his fist, spilling his seed as the first grey streaks of dawn filtered into the tent and the birds began to stir and call to each other from the branches outside.

Exhausted, Draco collapsed and went boneless with Potter still inside, still fucking him through the end of his orgasm. Potter kissed the back of his neck and mouthed at his sweaty nape, whispering things Draco couldn’t quite understand, and for a moment Draco imagined it could be like this every day, he and Potter together. 

Potter’s hands were gentle now, rubbing at Draco’s sides over sore areas that were probably bruises, not that Draco minded the roughhousing. He loved being manhandled in bed. He had always admired Potter’s strength in particular as he had grown from boy to man: still, he could have never predicted this domineering, almost possessive Potter. Was it the effect of the mushrooms, or was it the way Potter always treated his lucky partners? 

“You absolute brute,” Draco mumbled into the pillow. 

“I’m sorry,” Potter said, kissing the shell of Draco’s ear. “Did I hurt you?” 

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Draco meant the barb to save face, but it came out as more of a reverent whisper. 

“Mmm-hmm,” said Potter, pulling out. Draco felt empty immediately as wetness trickled down the insides of his thighs, and he groaned.

“Are you sure you’ve never fucked a man before, Potter?” 

“Quite sure. Do you think I have a talent for it?” 

“You’re not terrible.” 

Draco heard a snort come from behind and the rustle of blankets shifting. Then, he felt the dip of the mattress as Potter moved. He wasn’t expecting to feel hands on his arse, or the to hear the the sharp intake of breath as his cheeks were parted and his most intimate part exposed. He could imagine what he looked like, puffy and swollen. Would it be grotesque to someone like Potter? 

“Not exactly what you’re used to seeing,” Draco managed, embarrassment warring with a seemingly irrepressible arousal. 

“I’m not a virgin, Draco.”

A warm sensation that had nothing to do with his prick fluttered through Draco’s belly at the sound of his given name. He tried not to read too much into it, but it was difficult, especially as Potter began massaging his arse, his hands moving in slow circles, fingers digging into the flesh. Then there was the unmistakable pressure of two thumbs joining together, spreading. Draco’s hole fluttered around the new intrusion. 

“Look at that,” said Potter, and he didn’t seem displeased. “I want to . . . can I . . .” He was mumbling as though talking to himself, and Draco bit his bottom lip, his damned prick filling again and his thighs tightening with anticipation. Was Potter going to—?

“Ah!” Draco cried out, bucking towards the feeling of a warm, wet mouth covering his hole. This was no innocent exploration. Potter’s tongue lapped at him, swirling around his rim and then plunging inside, a smaller, more dexterous version of a cock, and nearly as satisfying. Draco pushed back wantonly, rising onto his haunches to give Potter more leverage. 

Every nerve ending was tingling, and he felt himself open up to Potter’s ravishment. Potter was making deep, throaty sounds of pleasure with his face buried in Draco’s arse. Draco looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Potter’s thick unruly hair, his eyes tightly closed as he licked and sucked and teased at Draco’s hole. It was a sight Draco knew he’d remember for the rest of his life. 

Wet sounds filled the tent. Draco could only imagine what would happen if someone found them now, but he supposed this was worth dying for. An inappropriate laugh bubbled up out of his throat at the thought of Macnair waking up. Luckily, Potter’s Incarcerous was famously strong. They had another few hours at least before Macnair would need attention. Hopefully by then they would be able to keep their hands off each other for more than a few minutes at a time. 

Draco’s sensitive cock bobbed below, longing to be touched, but Draco didn’t think he could manage, not with his arse in the air and his face buried between his arms. He could only arch his back and moan as Potter’s soft lips caressed him, bit at him, soothed him. Whether it was because of the mushrooms or years of pent-up frustration, Potter didn’t seem at all worried about being with another man. He was intently focused on his task, and Draco had never felt so utterly debauched. 

“I never want to stop,” Potter growled. “Fuck, Draco. You made me hard again.” 

Potter pulled away, and a hard prick slapped against Draco’s arse, the raw evidence. Draco knew what was going to happen, and there was no way he was going to stop it, not with his belly aching for Potter’s cock deep inside. This time, when Potter slotted home, there was almost no resistance at all. Their bodies were flush together, writhing. Potter lay down and gathered Draco to him, rolling so they were on their sides with Potter behind. Draco opened his legs, but Potter hardly moved. Unlike the first couple of times, Potter seemed content to be gentle, hands urging Draco’s hips back and forth, on and off his brilliantly hard, huge prick.  
At some point, Draco realized his head was lolling back against Potter’s shoulder, and then they were kissing lazily, their tongues rubbing together in a slick, lovely cadence. Neither of them commented on it, neither seemed to want to stop. It was like that for what seemed like forever: Draco slowly riding Potter, kissing him as though they were lovers.

After they finally climaxed, they dozed. Draco awoke sometime later, confused. His head hurt. His arse hurt. Potter was sleeping next to him, softly snoring and looking brilliantly shagged out. Seeing him sleeping so peacefully, it was easy to imagine they were off on a holiday—as if Draco would ever go camping on hols—and not on a dangerous mission. Still, Macnair would need to be seen to, and they would need to figure out their next move since the enchantment seemed to have faded. 

Potter moved in his sleep, snaking his arm around Draco’s waist, and Draco sighed as his cock twitched. He didn’t feel groggy anymore. No, this arousal was all thanks to Potter and his bloody stupid, perfect face. 

“Potter, you giant oaf.” Draco nudged at Potter’s side. When he got no response, he gave into his more pathetic urges and kissed Potter’s cheek. 

Potter’s coal-black eyelashes fluttered open, and Draco was lost in green. 

“Hey,” said Potter, sleepily.

“Hi,” Draco said, because he was an idiot and so was Potter.

Potter stretched and yawned. “I think . . . I think it’s worn off. How do you feel?” 

“Fine. A bit sore,” Draco admitted, flushing slightly.

“Sorry about that.” 

“I’m not. I mean . . . ” 

They looked at each other. Potter’s expression was soft, almost fond, but with a hint of trepidation. “Draco—”

Three things happened at once: 

Walden Macnair started yelling. Potter scrambled backwards and promptly fell off the bed. And Ronald Weasley burst through the tent entrance with a team of Aurors at his back, wands at the ready and eyes wide as they took in the scene. 

“Harry!” Weasley exclaimed. “What in the . . . Malfoy?” He had gone the most alarming shade of red Draco had seen on any Weasley, a feat in itself. Potter’s coloration wasn’t far off. He stood covering his bits with one hand and adjusting his glasses with the other. 

“Ron! How did you get here . . . er, so quickly?” The other Aurors hastily retreated to secure Macnair, who was screaming bloody murder. Draco suspected no one one their team wanted to bear witness to the Savior in flagrante delicto. 

“We got your Patronus, and Kingsley did a bit of negotiation with the Russians to expedite the Portkey request. They said they had no knowledge of deactivating yours, but I think we both know that’s bollocks . . . erm. Mate, what the hell is going on here?” Weasley gestured around, his eyes shrewdly taking in the rumpled bedclothes and the pile of uneaten mushrooms. Of course the entire place reeked of sex.

“Long story,” said Draco. “I’m sure we can spare you the details.” 

“Yes, long story,” Potter agreed, casting Draco a inscrutable look. Somehow during the exchange, Potter had managed to find his discarded trousers and pull them on, a pity, really, since it was probably the last time Draco would see his arse. 

“I don’t even want to know,” said Weasley, his voice filled with acute suffering. “Just tell me you aren’t—it was just a shag, right? I mean, you’re not going to start dating Malfoy, are you?” 

Potter shrugged. 

Draco fiddled with the blanket around his waist and desperately wondered what the shrug meant. 

“What does that mean?” Weasley’s face got even redder. 

No one had any time to answer. One of the Aurors, a stocky, brusque woman named Gwyneth, poked her head into the tent, gaze diverted, to let them know they had ten minutes to pack before the return Portkey activated. In the flurry of activity that ensued, Draco had no time to speak to Potter about what had happened between them, let alone what might happen in the future. He was forced to hold his tongue, thousands of questions ricocheting around in his mind like tiny bouncing snitches, while they dressed and assembled their belongings. 

But every time he looked over at Potter, Potter looked back at him. 

Outside, the grey dawn had given way to a cloudless, blue sky. The air was crisp and redolent with pine. Draco held his head high even as the other Aurors snickered, though of course they stopped immediately when Potter gave them a sharp glance. Macnair was rebound and held between Gwyneth and Weasley, his eyes darting wildly around. It would be Azkaban for him, and soon. 

“Ready?” said Potter. He stood next to Draco, their shoulders brushing. 

“I suppose so.” 

“It’s almost a shame we have to go back,” Potter whispered so only Draco could hear. “Maybe I should have packed some of those mushrooms for later.” 

“Is there going to be a later?” Draco whispered back.

Potter took his hand. The countdown to the Portkey had begun. “If you want there to be.” 

Draco’s heart swelled, and he squeezed Potter’s hand, reaching out with the other to grasp the Portkey just in time. Together, they hurtled through space in a dizzying whirl, towards a new future.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [Livejournal](https://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/151683.html).


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